Around dawn the traffic on the highway started up again at a steady clip. The vibrations come up through the asphalt into the cab of the pickup where Artemiy Burakh was sleeping, and roused him before too long. He woke up hollow and erect and thought to himself, in a perfunctory way - what have I been dreaming about?

He didn't remember his dreams anymore, but he knew. He always knew.

He felt alone.

He rolled his shoulders, waking slowly, and moved his legs down from the dashboard, upsetting his iodine pills and gas station road maps and a dead and empty fast food bag. The sound of it all clattering down into the passenger's side jarred him and left him unprepared for the wave of sudden grief.

He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel and stayed that way for a while, until he remembered his conviction. Then he sat up, dry swallowed a capsule of Tri-O-Dine, and felt around for his wallet.

Artemiy looked out the window of the cab if he were just noticing he was there. He was wakeful and alert, as if the ambiguous dawn, the hazy blue gradient into light, had just then flipped the switch to morning.

In spite of that there was still something strange and restless in the air. Maybe it was only his mood. He had spent the night at a truck stop, as he had so many times before, pulling skinwalker stories and haint tales out of old truckers drunk past midnight, looking for the traces of him, sometimes blatant, sometimes something he sensed rather than learned. Even so far from his native soil, he was the votary of the Walrider and the gods of his father and the powers of the Haruspex were with him. His eyes saw lands unseen, his ears heard words unspoken, and his feet knew the lines of the earth. They knew how to walk the right path.

At least they usually did. He had been in upstate Maine and flat broke when it happened.

Yet there was something in this place that resembled him. He felt him like that, a fading touch, fog rolling off the blacktop, a bed empty but heavy with warmth. A sign of beauty that cut you to the core, some essential goodness still left in the world.

He sat up a little straighter, muscles tense, and listened, though he didn't know for what.

"...Darling?" he whispered, his voice cracked and dry.

Aside from the traffic on the instate, the morning was absolutely silent.

dogisms said: myth?

that's what i usually presume, tbh. espec with promos and the like, 'cause i know a lot of ppl are into the mythos rp stuff. 

memoryserved said: theology inspired original character, like the same way there are mythology inspired original characters??

that would kind of make sense??? except st. michael... is.. already.. a thought up character... that is not my own. but it feels like he is!!! that's what i'm getting at

thesmophoric said: bible fandom. i was into the gospels before everyone was. psh i bet you’ve never even read apocrypha

i have! everybody needs to get on our level. (mostly so they can explain to me the sephirot & jewish mysticism)

famiines said: they dont deserve you

are you back on this blog??!? ilu [starry heart eyes 5eva]

rusaalke said: pft. some of the best christians i know are ‘bible fandom’—ppl who have theories and questions and who are incredibly into the material and interpretations and who write about the way they believe and who are frickin PASSIONATE ABOUT IT. gimme bible fandom christians any day. any fuckin day.

   [  Well... This can't be good.  ]

LUCA CHILD.

The one and only Loki in my life. (and the rest of forever as far as I’m concenred.)

We don’t talk and/or do stuff as much as we used to, and that’s mostly my fault for a increasing number of reasons. But for now we can blame it on the fact that I’m an asshole.

Oh, also: I still think you’re amazing, both in and out of character. That hasn’t changed at all over all this time we've been not talking and stuff.

xoxoxo,